Downstream the current time of river moves in me with single terse aim past city port to the sea.
Boats using my brim travel my way, but faster. Then home they froth upstream to marina and a rest.
Mended the moment's scar of hull, the keel's bite. Friction cannot wear water, my history, out.
Come autumn, come cold, I feel the constant years still flowing, unrecalled, without halt, without reverse.
Hello, small incidents, short back-and-forth ploy of surface hours. Brief endings and turnabouts, goodbye.